


Tricks of Radiant Miracles

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, descriptions of previous torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 00:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16629785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: John existed, just existed after the death of his friend. He forgave Sherlock everything. But when Mycroft interveens and reveals to John that Sherlock survived, big brother also imparts the cost: the aftermath of Moriarty’s legacy where hate lead to revenge, revenge to torment, and torment to recognition. An AU where events shift after “the fall.”Big thanks and hugs to Beta, Recentlyfolded, who went above and beyond.





	Tricks of Radiant Miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HPswl_cumbercookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPswl_cumbercookie/gifts).



Title of work based on line from Sylvia Plath’s “[ Black Rook In Rainy Weather ](https://www.internal.org/Sylvia_Plath/Black_Rook_in_Rainy_Weather)“

\-----------------

On November 20th, it rains. The sky cries and so does John Watson while a one word text message still has the power to break his heart.

_Goodbye. SH_

He’ll never delete it. He stares down as his mobile screen glows back. A light in a dark place. He slowly slips it into his right pocket and takes one step forward. With a shaky breath, he touches the headstone. After, he brushes the wet from his cheeks. Not tears. Rain.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

Each time he comes here, he tells himself it’s the last, but he comes back. He’s soaked through and through, but he needs to say goodbye in return. A lonely rook calls to him from a nearby oak tree. This time he’s certain it’s the last. Because this time is different.

With every stinging breath, he sees within the icy mist the horror of Sherlock’s fall. He still relives that moment every time he closes his eyes. A slow-motion frame by frame memory behind his stinging eyelids.

He takes his hand from the dank stone and thrusts it deep into his pockets. He thinks of angels and devils. He’s not sure what he believes, but he thinks if there are angels, Sherlock is one. John usually talks to him. He can’t seem to find the words today. Not yet, at least.

In the past, he’s told Sherlock of his regrets, his wishes. He’s done it here by his grave; he’s done it at his kitchen table. He’ll tell Sherlock what’s going on in his life, which is never much. He’s told him how he’s missed Sherlock yelling “idiot” at the telly, how he’s missed shared cups of tea. How he’s not a fake. How his sugar bowl never gets empty. How he longs to see Sherlock fling himself down on the coach in a tantrum. How he was real. Human.

And he’s told him how he’d sell his soul to see Sherlock pout just one more time even if it’s only as some celestial burning figure. And John has asked how, no why, he did what he did. Each time he comes here he asks for him to be not dead.   

He wishes this were all one of his tricks.

He’s told Sherlock, he’s sorry, but he couldn’t live at 221B with Mrs. Hudson. “ _It hurt too much,”_ he said to Sherlock right after he moved out. And months later he admitted to Sherlock, _“I feel guilty. I know I should visit her more. You leaving us was hard on her. You were like her son.”_

He knows she keeps herself busy, but still he worries about Mrs. Hudson being alone. No need to tell Sherlock that too. Today he promises Sherlock, “I’ll do better,” then adds, “I’ll see her tomorrow. I have something to tell her. To tell you too. That’s why I’m here.”

He blinks the rain off his lashes and rubs the back of his neck, and the black rook calls to him again.

“I’ve met someone,” he says. “I know you’d say I’m always meeting someone, but this time it’s serious. You see, Sherlock, being alone, I hate it, and she’s, well, she’s been there for me. Helped me along. Her name is Mary. I’ve come to tell you I’m going to ask her to marry me tonight. Even bought the ring and made the dinner arrangements. Don’t laugh. It’s at that posh place I said I hated.”

He pulls the box with the ring out of his left pocket. John chose the restaurant because Sherlock had mentioned it once and John had told Sherlock it was too fancy for his likes. But John thought Mary would love it. After his shift at Barts, he had plans to go straight home, change, get ready, but he came here to tell Sherlock instead. It only seemed right. Over the last few days, he’s thought of twenty ways to ask her, and a hundred ways to tell him. John has decided to be direct in both cases. No games. Although Sherlock loved games, this is not the time for them. Not anymore.

“So, I won’t be coming to see you again. I wish...I wish so many things. I wish…”

John can’t even say it to his grave any longer. It never comes true. It never will. But he can think it. _I wish it would have been you._

The rook flies away. He thinks that maybe it’s Sherlock, its wet, black feathers shining in the rain like Sherlock’s black curly locks. The rook calls out one last time, a reprimand.

From the first day he met Sherlock Holmes, he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his days at his side. But that was not to be.

As he walks from Highgate Cemetery, wet leaves cling to his shoes and the wind whips and slaps his face. Coming to visit Sherlock started with miserable drizzle and left him with squishy shoes.

He’s halfway back to his bedsit, his eyes cast ahead, when a black sedan passes, splashing mud and sludge across the pavement and down his leg. He curses under his breath, then squints to see the sedan has slowed and parked twelve feet ahead of him. As he nears, the door swings open.

He sighs. _Mycroft. Of course._

John resents it that Mycroft watches him so closely, but resents it more that Mycroft didn’t watch his brother closer still. He sighs as he steps next to the open door. He bends down and looks in. Mycroft sits, umbrella propped next to him. He nods for John to get inside. John is wet and cold and miserable. How much worse could he feel? He guesses he’s about to find out. He shrugs back his stiff shoulder, then slides inside. He drips on the fine, leather seats, which gives John a certain satisfaction. The fucking sedan even has a flat screen telly built into back of the seat. He’d like to drip on that too a bit.

He’s about to ask what this is about, but he already knows. The reason is the ring in his left pocket. Mycroft sees everything.

———————————————

But it has more to do with what’s in his pocket. Much more. John, all he can do is spin around in the seat and slam his fist into Mycroft’s face with as much force as a person can muster while still confined in the sedan’s backseat. Even though it’s been a few years since he’s thrown a punch, he still has what it takes. Mycroft holds his nose as blood drips and stains his perfect double-breasted waistcoat and half-Winsor, his voice muffled as he tells his man to keep on driving.

John flings himself back, crossing his arms tight to his chest.

“Alive?! He’s been bloody alive! You’ve known all along?!” He closes his eyes and bites his lip. He wants to slug Mycroft again. Give him a black eye to contrast with his nose.

He leans forward, head between his knees, breathing deeply. _Isn’t this what I’d asked for, for two years?_ He thinks. _For Sherlock not to be dead?_

He pulls his hair and groans. His head is muddled but not enough to prevent him from asking, “Who else?”

Mycroft shakes his head. _Mycroft refuses to say_ , he thinks. _Why is that_ _not surprising? He thinks I’ll hit him again._

He really didn’t need to ask Mycroft. “Lestrade. And Molly...she had to know for you to pull it off.”

“John, my brother did it to protect you.” He brushes off his posh pinstriped trousers with all of the visible emotion of a carp.  

John chokes back a laugh. He thinks of those days directly after the fall, his service revolver warm in his hand, when he thought it might be best to join Sherlock. He thought about it before he met the crazy bastard. Why not? But he hadn’t! No.

He hadn’t done it after the fall either. If he’d pulled that trigger, his death would have validated that Sherlock was a fake. Never! Sherlock was never a fake! “The day he jumped off the roof at Barts,” Mycroft says. “Moriarty forced his hand. Sherlock knew what he intended and planned for it. Moriarty’s men had rifles trained on the three people he cared for most. If he hadn’t jumped, all of you would now be dead.”

“I saw him. He _was dead_. I checked his pulse.”

“You are correct. He jumped. He was clinically dead. It was a necessary risk my brother insisted on for your protection. It’s easy enough to stop and start a heart. Without the assistance of Miss Hooper and DI Lestrade, we never would have been able to revive him. Even with the planned fall, he suffered a severe concussion, broken ribs and arm.”

He shouldn’t be surprised Sherlock went to such lengths but… “Two years! It’s been two years! Not once in that time did it occur to you that I might want to know...need to know the truth? Where has he been?” He sits back, feeling less dizzy.

“He took over a month to heal. After that from one continent to another, he tracked all of those cells loyal to Moriarty who might harm you. ”

“That’s rich! Travelling the world?!”

“Hunting. Every person Moriarty left behind orders to kill you. The world had to believe my brother was dead. If not, you would be executed. Sherlock wouldn’t risk it.”

John can’t stand to hear much more. “Let me out.” He reaches for the handle.

“Wait. John before you do, I need you to understand. He is back, and he needs you. What he did, he did because he had no alternative, but he is not the same man you knew.”

“He had years to tell me. So did you. _And_  Molly... _and_  Lestrade. Hell, you all knew! Why not tell me if I mattered so damn much to him?”

“Because although they care for and love him in their own way, what you feel for my brother runs much deeper. We feared you would go to him, and you know you would have. That would have been your death sentence, as well as Mrs. Hudson’s and Lestrade’s.”

“So he’s alive. And nearby. Somewhere.”

“Yes, and he will be beyond angry with me when he learns I spoke to you first. He had planned to meet you at the restaurant tonight.”

“He knows then,” John says, and stares out the window.

“Not that you plan to propose to Mary Morstan. He believes it’s just another one of your dates. I hadn’t the heart to tell him.”

“Hadn’t the heart to tell him? Since when do you even have a heart? And for that matter, you clearly didn’t have one all those years when you could have told me he was alive.”

“There is really only one way for you to understand the gravity of what he experienced. To understand the measure of how important you are to him.”

John stops, thick pain stabbing him in the chest. Not a heart attack, but it damn well was his heart hurting. What did Mycroft mean? It was too horrible to contemplate.

“He was captured and imprisoned, John. For months. Shackled and starved and subjected to all forms of torture.”

John’s mind whites out. All the anger and rage drops from his head to his chest to his feet.

“I won’t subject you to the whole thing,” Mycroft says, “but you need to see some of it to understand.”

John is still staring down at his own hands. He hears Mycroft click the remote, and John’s head jolts up when hears a voice he’ll never forget plead, “No-o.”

Despite the countless hours John has spent watching him from his armchair or as he bent down to examine bodies at crime scenes, the man on the screen is almost unrecognizable. His face is bloodied and bruised, swelling distorting those once-beautiful features. His left eye is swollen shut; the flesh around his right is gruesome in shades of blacks and greens and yellows. His sharp cheekbones are split open. He’s strapped naked to a thick wooden bench that’s stained rust from his blood and that of those before him. His chest heaves and his body shakes. He’s covered in a mass of welts, bruises and angry scars from previous beatings: bruises of cruel fingerprint mar his white thighs. Although bound at the arms, he still raises his hand as if to ward them off, two fingers broken, fingernail beds raw and ragged.

John feels as if he’s going to vomit. “Turn it off!” he huffs out.

“He never wanted me to show you this, but I feel it is necessary to understand what he has gone through. He did it to save you. To save Martha Hudson, to save Gregory Lestrade. He did it for all of you, and he came back for you too. He could have given up. Killed himself. It would have been easier for him.”

John pushes his palms into his eyes. He wants to rip them out, dissolve the retinas in acid, anything to erase the images. He resents Mycroft showing it to him, but he knows nothing could compare to the hell Sherlock experienced.

“I’m afraid there is one additional thing you need to see, or, rather, hear. It will take just a few more minutes. Then...”

John clears his throat, then nods his head. Mycroft resumes playing the recording. John lifts his head to watch. A door opening and closing casts long, broken shadows behind Sherlock as his tormentors leave. He is alone. He gasps and moans, then in a deep, cracked voice he calls John’s name. Mycroft fast-forwards the video. It’s another time, another place. John knows exactly who sits in the chair with his back to the camera. John listens in on the session as Sherlock is being debriefed. The woman interviewing Sherlock is good.

“You told me there were many time you said you wanted to give up,” she says. “What kept you from doing just that?”

“I needed to come back,” he whispers, then weeps, “to John.”

It takes some minutes for John to compose himself enough to speak. He wants to cry. He wants to rip Mycroft to pieces.

“Take me to him now,” John demands.

“I am.”

His left pocket feels heavier.

___________________________

Mycroft takes him home. To the steps of 221B. John swallows down what he feels. He’s digging around in his coat pocket, fumbling for the key he never returned. He never had the heart to give it back. He’s trying his best to slip inside unnoticed, but his shaking hands refuse to cooperate. He finally turns the key and the door groans announcing he’s here. He’s grateful Mrs. Hudson doesn’t come to the door to see him like this— all wet and soggy with red eyes from crying.

He climbs the stairs. At the top the door is ajar. He steps inside.

Sherlock stands near the doorway in the old blue silk dressing gown. He looks drawn and pale. He’s thinner, and John can see traces of faded scars on his face. His hands are scarred and his once perfectly manicured nails are misshapen and warped. He is clenching his left hand so tightly his knuckles are white.

“ _Sherlock_ ” is all John can muster. Part of him wants to run up and hug him to him so hard he can’t breathe. The other part is afraid to even touch him.

“I told him not to speak to you.” He hesitates. “I...I wanted to surprise you.”

“Surprise me?!”

“At the restaurant tonight. Be your server,” Sherlock says.

“No. This is better. Showing up as our waiter, well, add that to the list of what’s not good.” John sniffs.

“You have every reason to be angry,” Sherlock says. “I thought a more neutral setting would be best.”

John shakes his head and bites his lip, calming himself. He is angry, but there’s such a sadness in Sherlock that John works even harder to rein himself in. This distresses Sherlock even more.

“He’s told you...all of it.” Sherlock pulls at his hair. “I told him that I wanted to be the one to explain it to you, and instead he...”

“Sherlock, stop,” John interrupts. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?! It’s not fine! Nothing will ever be fine again!”  Sherlock flings his arms in the air, then throws himself face first on the sofa.

“He did tell me,” John confesses, but he keeps the video a secret. “Do you want me to pity you? I don’t. But I am angry. If you want to pout on the couch like some Victorian drama queen, be my guest. Just don’t you dare leave me again! You let me think you were dead, for God’s sake! Made me watch you jump! Do you know what that did to me?”

Sherlock flips back over, face up on the couch. He turns his head to see John, then slowly sits back up. He holds his head down, then slowly raises his chin and looks into John’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I never thought I’d be gone so long. I thought a month, then two. Then two months turned into a year and one year into two.” Sherlock sighs, then waves his hands and motions to the room around him. ”I came home and...dust on the table. Your shaving and grooming supplies gone from the bath. Cupboards barren. You weren’t here...you’d moved out. I do understand why, John. I’m sorry for that...so much more than I can ever say. You have every right to be angry and sad.”  Sherlock stands, dropping his once-elegant hands to his sides. He takes a hesitant step toward John.

“Sad?! I wasn’t sad, Sherlock. I was lost. Devastated!”

As John says this, Sherlock reels back. When John’s hand flies out to grab Sherlock’s silk gown to draw him back, Sherlock buckles at the waist as if he’s been punched. His eyes well up, but as John reaches up in comfort to touch Sherlock’s face, his friend’s head snaps back as if he’s been struck a second time.

John drops his hands useless to his sides.

“I’m sorry. Touching is...I can’t...I’ve been in the dark, John,” Sherlock says, his voice tight, hushed and deep, his head lowered. “Such darkness that even when the sun warms my skin, I don’t recognize it. It’s a black, insidious cloud that engulfs me.” He lifts his head and looks at John’s cramped and dangerous smile. “You _should_ be angry with me. Very angry. You may hit me. I understand.”

“I’m not...I’m not going to do that! But you being dead— _believing_ you were dead— it killed something in me.” He wants to tell Sherlock that he wants that piece of himself back. He just can’t bring himself to say it.

“I look into a mirror, and it’s not me,” Sherlock admits. “I feel as if I’ve lost an essential piece of myself. Nothing feels the same.” His long fingers caress his arms. “My robe. It’s foreign to me. Is that my skin? An imposter lives within it! I am numb to myself. When someone touches me...I abhor it! I shudder with revulsion. I reject it. I want to feel _right_ again.”

John wonders whether if Mycroft hadn’t stepped in, Sherlock would have acted as though  he were fine and hidden this pain from him. He’s a consummate actor. He also knows John so well. He probably would have tried. He _would_ have hit him if Mycroft hadn’t shown him the hell he went through.

Sherlock sways in front of him. He’s in pain. While his injuries appear healed, he’s in agony inside.

“You. It’s always you, John Watson. You keep me right.”

He’s about to keep him upright as well. John catches him before he falls.  

———————————————-

He calls Mary and cancels. It’s the right thing to do.

It’s also the right thing to tell Sherlock the truth. And the truth is that he loves him. Always has, always will. And he knows now without a doubt that Sherlock cares. Mycroft showed him that.

He doesn’t go home that evening. They spend time together quietly. It’s comfortable and familiar. John’s missed this.

It’s dark in the living room, the telly casting flickering shadows. From his wingback chair, John watches Sherlock sleeping all folded up tight on the couch. Regret seeps through John’s chest. A lot of regret. But what John regrets most is that he let his own fears keep them apart. What was he really afraid of? That Sherlock would love him back?     

He snorts. All that “I’m not gay!” Who was he fooling? Not Irene. Not even Sherlock after what he heard at Battersea that night. And really, not himself.

Sherlock is exhausted. He said he hadn’t slept in days. He fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. John’s seen him do this before, after long and trying cases: Sherlock collapses and sleeps through entire days.

Sherlock startles and opens his darkly dilated eyes, casting them about frantically, looking for danger in the darkness of the room. They come to rest on John, illuminated by the glow of the streetlight through the window. He stills, his body taut and ready to snap before it loosens and relaxes. His lids droop and eyes slide half shut.

Once he is asleep again, John slips from his chair and kneels next to Sherlock’s head. As he stares at his face, those beautiful features he knows so well, under the thick shadow of his lashes, Sherlock’s eyes flutter in REM sleep. John draws a deep breath and  lightly caresses his brow. He looks so much older than the man whom John chased after on the streets and rooftops of London just two years ago.

He returns to his old chair. He’s too tired to go home. He thinks about his bed upstairs. He thinks he’ll call Mary and let her know he’s fine and not to wait up. He decides to sit and watch Sherlock a bit longer just to make sure he doesn’t disappear.

___________________________

Sherlock  doesn’t. Disappear that is. He stays. And John moves back home to 221B.

Mary remains a sore spot for John. He ended it all wrong. He thinks she always knew how he felt about Sherlock, accepting that she’d never have that part of John’s heart.

John sighs. His relationships always crumble in Sherlock’s wake. He did talk to her. “Sherlock needs me,” he’d told her.

“Of course he does,” she’d said. “But that’s no reason to move out of our flat.”

He’d thought about what he should do with the ring. When he broke it off, he took the ring to there old flatt, and he almost gave it to her. He didn’t want it. What does a used-up army doctor need with a diamond ring? He told her over tea in her kitchen that he wasn’t worth crying over. That she could do better. He never liked her vintage formica table much; it was missing chemical burns and iodine stains. He’d cried a bit too— not so much because he was sorry it was ending, but because he was sorry he hurt her. That’s when he changed his mind about giving her the ring. It would only hurt her more.

He knew he’d made the right decision. Even when he said goodbye, he looked into Mary’s eyes and saw there was still a part of her that believed John might come back. He realized if he’d given her the ring, she’d continue to think there was a chance he would.

The next day he gave the ring to his sister Harry instead. Maybe she’ll find a good use for it one day.

He doesn’t go back to Mary’s. He asks Mycroft to pick up what little John took there, and John unpacks his trousers and jumpers along with a few other odds and ends back into old room upstairs in 221B.

The one thing he still hasn’t unpacked is his heart.

He should feel worse about Mary, but he doesn’t. He’s too concerned about Sherlock to think of anyone else. Sherlock seems himself. He’s a fine actor. Orders John about. Demands tea. Does experiments on the table. It seems normal except that he has absolutely no interest in going on cases, leaving the flat, or talking about criminals. He does eat. A lot. Mrs. Hudson is happy about this turn of events.

But it’s Sherlock avoiding even the slightest touch that concerns John most. He barely tolerates John’s examinations and despite Mycroft’s insistances, refuses to allow anyone else to even try to examine him. He even shies away from Mrs. Hudson’s hugs.

John knows too well the reason for Sherlock’s reaction because he recognises the signs of his own PTSD. Sherlock’s beatings and torture. John can’t erase the mental images of white thighs bruised with hand and fingerprints. It all points to sexual assault. John reads as much as he can on the subject. Medical journals, survivor support group information, all the resources he can find. How to help this man? He must feel safe, and John swears to do that. When Sherlock is ready, he will help him. Until then, he is there for Sherlock and will remain there for him for as long as it takes.

Almost a month passes, and John is glad that Mary seems at least partially resigned that John’s not returning. On the other hand, Sherlock, no matter how often John reassures him, remains concerned that John may leave. So it was with great care a couple of weeks later that John builds a cozy fire for the evening, and he’s glad now that he did. They both need to relax and become comfortable with each other— the way they were before Sherlock left. Although the rain beats against the panes and the winds howl outside, it’s warm and snug in the living room.

Sherlock lies on the couch with his legs draped over John as they watch a the DVD on the telly together. Sherlock’s not really following Goldfinger at all, but John loves watching Sean Connery dodge deadly flying hats. Between quick checks to see how Sherlock is fairing, that is— only then can John turn back to the movie. Bond has just electrocuted Oddjob, then forced the lock off the bomb using gold bullion bars from the vault, but he’s unable to disarm it.

“I want to erase it,” Sherlock says.

John sits up sharply. He knows what Sherlock means.

“I can’t. It won’t leave. Maybe if I copy and paste over it, delete it.”

“It’s possible,” John says. “Listen Sherlock, I know I’m rubbish at saying what I feel, but I care. If talking about it will help you, I’m here.”

“You have always believed in me even when you should not have.”

“There’s so much I didn’t say.”

A log hisses and snaps in the fireplace, and Sherlock jumps. “You’re not marrying her. Why?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t know why. I’d like for you to tell me.”

“One person should never commit to another when in love with someone else,” John admits quietly. Behind them Goldfinger is blown out of the cabin through the ruptured hijacked plane window.

“John.” Sherlock’s hand shakes as he reaches to touch John’s face, then yanks it back. “I didn’t understand. Not until the day at the pool...when you...I thought...I didn’t want to admit to myself that I could feel _this_ ,” he says and touches his chest.

“You’ve always believed in me too.” Every atom in John wants to pull Sherlock to him, to hold him, to comfort him, to kiss him, but he’s afraid of Sherlock’s reaction. “You saved my life.”

Instead Sherlock touches him. This time when his shaky hand reaches out to John, his fingers caress John’s face.

A flash of lightning illuminates Sherlock’s features. On the telly, Bond rescues Galore and they parachute safely from the aircraft just before it crashes into the ocean. Sherlock’s face is serious and sad. “We saved each other. You did that John. You can again. I need you. I need to feel human. Make me right.”

John is not sure what Sherlock is asking. It doesn’t matter because the answer in his head is yes. He thinks he may have said it. Possibly shouted it. He’d do anything to help Sherlock.

Sherlock stands and motions for John to follow. Of course John does. He will always follow the man.

Sherlock strips slowly as he walks. The combination of the telly, lightning flashes and flickering flames from the fireplace make his motion appear jerky and robotic. Once in Sherlock’s room, he turns to John. He might be a bundle of nerves, but his eyes never leave John’s. Even scarred and thin, he’s achingly beautiful.

“I don't know what to say right now. I am sorry about that. Tell me what you need. I want to be the person you deserve," John says.

“You are that person. I trust you, John, implicitly. I need you to touch me. To make me feel alive. There was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever want to feel again, except you made me. _I saw you._ You appeared to me, there in my prison. They tried to take you from me, your memory, your will along with my own. They took many things from me, but they could not take that. Never that. You kept me sane. Now make me whole. I want that. I want it more than anything. Only you. Only you can do that for me.”

Sherlock spills down on the bed, white limbs on whiter sheets, lying on his back with his knees apart.

“I want you, too,” John chokes out. He is stunned and shaken from Sherlock’s admission.

Sherlock nods to the obvious evidence of his need, his plump cock, rising to point at the one he wants.

"God, you are beautiful," John says with disbelieving smile. He’s here in Sherlock’s bedroom, and they’re going to do this. He’s beginning to imagine how this might work. He needs to be slow and sure. He needs to be everything that Sherlock expects. The rumbles of the storm add to Sherlock’s anxiety. John decides to leave the lights on, let Sherlock see. He needs reassurance that he’s safe.

“Night table. Drawer,” Sherlock points.

John does as he’s directed and gets the lube from the drawer. He sets it next to Sherlock’s head on the pillow as John kneels alongside the bed.

Sherlock makes a sound of disappointment.

“We have all the time, all the time in world,” John says, eyes glassy, lips trembling. “I didn’t think I’d ever get any.” He feels as if he’s going to start sobbing.

Instead, he takes off his own clothes. His jumper, his jeans, his pants. Sherlock watches, entranced. John crawls into the bed along Sherlock’s right side, leans down and brushes his lips to his chest. Sherlock shivers. John plants butterfly kisses up his chest, his neck, his chin, to his mouth. That perfect mouth. Those full lips part, soft and damp. He nips gently on Sherlock’s bottom lip and he’s rewarded with a deep moan and a body shiver.

“Alright?” John asks, pulling back to see Sherlock’s flushed face.

He nods and sucks in his bottom lip. “Fine. I’m fine.” He stares at John’s mouth. “Again please.”

John bends back over him, lips touching lips. This time both mouths part. Sherlock tests John’s teeth with his tongue, flicking. This time John is the one to shiver. John straddles him, and Sherlock tenses every muscle.

“We can stop anytime,” John says.

“I did not tell you to stop. I don’t want you to stop. I know you’ve concerns. I don’t really think that you have a magical healing cock, John. I simply need to move beyond what happened to me in that dark place and back into my own life, as I want to live it.”

“I just want you to be certain this is what you want.”

"John, I'll beg if it helps," he says. “Please. I want you to touch me. However hesitant or reticent I seem, it’s not what I want in the heart of me. I need you, John. To put your fingers inside me. To push your glorious cock deep within me until I am filled with you, until I can think only of you and me and this time and this place.”

Then John does as he’s asked. He touches him. His chest, his nipples, his belly, until he reaches Sherlock’s cock and the beautiful man thrusts up.

Sherlock begins to touch John in return. Mimicking John’s motions, his long fingers caress across John’s chest, his shoulder, his back.  

John lets his body gradually cover Sherlock’s, lowering himself, slowly easing his weight on top of him. He cups his balls, gently rolling them. Sherlock still shakes, but he moans too. And John kisses him again. Deeply. Sherlock quivers, and John worries for a moment, but realises Sherlock has reached for the lube on the pillow.

He hands it to John. "Keep going," Sherlock orders, and huffs out a breath as if gathering his will.

John twists the cap and wipes the lube into the palm of his right hand and onto the index finger of his left. “You’re certain?” he asks.

“I’ve never been so certain.” Then Sherlock smiles. It’s natural, sweet. “I think this means you might be gay though.”

“Really?!” John says in false shock.

Sherlock gives him another smile, this one coaxing and a bit sly. "Don't change your mind on me now," he teases, then he becomes deadly serious. "I thought of this, of us together. I’ve wanted this for a very long time. There's no one on earth I trust to do this with but you."

“Fuck,” John says, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers. “Precisely.”

John sits up between his legs, his hands messaging Sherlock’s thighs. He adds more lube. Despite his years as a physician, he feels clumsy as he presses and pushes and pauses. He carefully gauges Sherlock’s expression.

"I’m fine," he says.

John’s eyes remain fixed on Sherlock. He doesn’t want to miss a sign or cue however small that Sherlock is uncomfortable. He carefully pushes in and out in short movements. Sherlock’s breathing comes in gasps and starts as he rocks against John’s hand. Sherlock’s cock strains and his own cock jerks and leaks.

John is encouraged to see Sherlock’s hand sliding up and down his own cock, matching John’s rhythm. John wiggles and curls his finger. Sherlock flinches and writhes as John repeats the motion, feeling the heat and tightness in his passage. Without entirely withdrawing his finger, he aligns a second finger and pushes back in. There's a bit more resistance, but his fingers sink inside below his knuckles.

Sherlock pulls his knees up. “More,” he hisses.  

Sucking in a deep breath and working to get his heart back into his chest, John draws his fingers out.

“You want me,” Sherlock swallows back the words. "You know you want to shove that big, thick cock deep in me."

John groans at his words.

“I’ve seen you look at my arse. I know you want it. You love it. You love me. You do. Show me. Fuck me, John." His right hand snags  the lube and his thumb pops the top. His long fingers generously slather John’s hands, and Sherlock guides them up together and down John’s anxious cock.

“Oh, God, yes,” John gasps.

Sherlock hands steer  John’s cock, centered on Sherlock’s puckered bud. The head of his cock weeps to be inside, so John pushes. He didn’t realise it would be this easy to slide inside Sherlock’s heat. He’s half inside, and he looks into Sherlock’s face. He looks as surprised as John. Sherlock looks down, incapable of tearing his gaze from where their bodies are joined.

"Does it hurt?" John asks, voice controlled. He needs to be in control for Sherlock despite how incredibly obscene the sight of being locked together is.

“A bit, but this is good.” Sherlock hands is gliding slowly on his own cock as he speaks. His eyes are glassy; he looks high.

John has to look away from Sherlock’s hands. If he doesn’t, he’ll come just from watching Sherlock. Instead he focuses on his shoulder. It hurts. A reminder of years and pain. He gazes into Sherlock’s uncanny eyes. It doesn’t matter that his muscles protest, that he’s years older. It’s finally happening. He’s with the man he loves. Almost a month ago he thought he’d have to settle for a life empty of this glorious man. But no more. He has it all before him. It’s really happening.

John actually feels Sherlock’s arse twitch with his impending orgasm. His elbows hurt, his shoulder stabs in agony, but he feels more alive than he’s ever felt. He braces himself. He’s slipping over the edge. He lets himself look down at Sherlock’s hands again. He’s squeezing his own cock hard and his body clenches.

Behind his eyes, hot blue and white sparks blind him as he comes. Sherlock gasps and he shoots, christening himself and John with his spunk.

John’s own orgasm is long and pulses through him. He’s sobbing. He can’t help it. Trying to catch his breath, John collapses on top and Sherlock’s arms hug his closer. In a reversal, Sherlock looks up at John in concern.

"That was brilliant,” John says, trying to wipe the worry from Sherlock’s eyes. “If I were gay, I'd do this all the time."

Sherlock actually laughs. “I believe the evidence that you are indeed at least bisexual is buried inside my arse.”

John laughs harder and his cock slips out. “Oi. Move over, I'm not sleeping on the wet spot!” They both catch what he’s said at the same time. “That is, if you want me to sleep here.”

“Of course!” Sherlock holds him tighter as John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

He’s tired but he doesn’t want to rest his eyes. He doesn’t want to miss a moment with Sherlock like this. Rain still beats the windows. It’s like the rapture has taken place inside this bedroom. Sherlock’s breathing slows as does his own. Neither sleeps.

“When I was their prisoner,” Sherlock began, “I used to think what it would be like to have you say you loved me. I wanted to change what we were together. That we were this. I thought of what it would be like to hold each other, to tell you what I felt in return. I longed to hear you say it.”

“I wished for that too.” Listening to the radiance echo as their hearts beat, it became easy to say. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I love you too, John Watson.”

John kisses the side of Sherlock’s neck. He realises the rain has finally stopped.

———————————————-

On November 21st, the miracle happened. Every year John Watson celebrates the anniversary, but never alone. He raises a glass with the man he loves. He swears to himself he will never forget what it was like before the rain ended.


End file.
